


All Roads

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, I NEED MY HAPPY ENDING FOR THESE TWO DORKS, M/M, Reconcilation, crazy!Gucket, fiddauthor - Freeform, old man loves his racoon wife, recovery!Fidds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:59:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5706901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford catches up with an old friend after the end of Weirdmageddon, while the town celebrates the world's restoration to normalcy. </p><p>100-word drabbles, followed by freeform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff up the wazoo because holy crap, these two are so goddamned cute together, and I need to see them happy, gdi 
> 
> Going with the assumption that (1) Bill is defeated with zero casualties, (2) Fiddleford bears no grudges against Stanford, (3) the two may or may not have expressed their feelings for each other in the past but never acted on them and (4) both Stans have resolved their crap at this point and are on okay terms with each other, with Stan getting to stay, and the kids getting to celebrate their birthday before they go home. 
> 
> I love recovery!Fidds, but I also love crazy!Gucket. So... have both of them.

Stanford had expected their reunion to be awkward. And In a sense, it was.

But only for him.

“STANFERD!”

Fiddleford waves excitedly at him from across the room, his unfocused eyes looking more manic than usual as the strobe lights pass over his face. Ford blinks, and then suddenly McGucket is _beside him._

He chokes on his punch, both from the abrupt arrival of the scrawnier man, as well as the bandaged arm that’s been thrown a little too enthusiastically around his windpipe.

“ _Hello to you too, Fiddleford_ ,” he manages, once McGucket has stopped accidentally cutting off his air supply.

x x x

The other man just continues thumping him heartily on the back as he sputters. That’s fine. Stanford Pines can make conversation.

“I, ah… You look goooo – ” There’s a chicken bone sticking out of his beard, and what Ford is _praying_ is just spilled punch on the other’s crotch, nope, nope, wrong opening, try again – “It’s great to seeee – ” He’s pretty sure his face is radiating anything but a positive expression at the moment. He gives up. 

“How’s it going,” Ford says instead. He snags an éclair off a passing platter and shoves the entire thing into his mouth.   

x x x

“Good!” Fiddleford grins. The strobe light glints distractingly off his gold tooth. It’s like that stupid Mesmerizing Object Stan has back in the Shack. Ford can’t look away. “This party’s great! They’ve got m’favorite music goin’ and everything!” Fiddleford tugs him closer. “And I survived the Apocalypse, AND I get ta celebrate this momentous occasion wit’ the most important person in m’life!”

Stanford stammers, coloring. Surely he can’t mean…?

But Fiddleford’s smile is wide and open, and he’s looking directly into Stanford’s eyes, and –

“Ain’t that righ’, sugar pot?”

– and there’s a raccoon in his face.

A very-much-alive-and-no-longer-petrified, _angry_ raccoon.

x x x

 Stanford _squeaks_ as it hisses at him, fur spiking up along its back in hostility.

Fiddleford takes no notice of the trashing animal in his hands.

“Oh, righ’. Betsy, this here be Stanferd Pines, town darlin’ Mr. Mystery! Stanferd, this here’s Gina, m’raccoon wife.” Fiddleford giggles as the animal attempts to rake out Ford’s eyes. “Ahhh, Sally. She’s like a lil’ wildfire, this one. Doncha worry. Susie’s just all bite and no bark.”

“She’s lovely,” Ford agrees through clenched teeth. He decides, in interest of his rapidly dwindling confidence and sanity, not to correct which twin Fiddleford’s mistaken him for.

 x x x 

The other continues introducing them and their history together, completely unfazed. Stanford does his best to smile pleasantly and nod as the other chatters on happily about... he’s not actually sure. Something about a shame bot version two-point-fivety-ninedred. In any case, it gives Ford a bit of time to gather his thoughts and recompose himself.

“…and that’s how I discovered that raw entrails don’t really taste much better, even after addin’ peppermint to ‘em,” Fiddleford concludes sagely, nodding. “Gotta clean ‘em out reaaal good firs’, too, ‘specially the colon – ”    

…and Fiddleford is never going to shut up, is he.

 x x x

 “Stanferd? Y’alright?”

Ford jumps at the hand on his shoulder, startling once he realizes that the older man actually looks concerned. He still barely recognizes the stooped figure before him, but for just the briefest of instances… Fiddleford had been _Fiddleford._ The same gangly, hippy, banjo-loving roommate who could somehow always pick out whenever Ford got quieter than usual.

The moment is gone faster than he can register it. Ford clears his throat, awkward again, but there’s a speaking opportunity now, and he’s not going to let it go.

“Would you - ”

“ – like t’dance? _DO_ I!”

…oh boy.

x x x

He’s tiny, but it’s like Fiddleford has the strength of a million Chihuahuas. Stanford finds himself dragged into the literal spotlight.

“Well don’t jus’ _stand_ there, Stanferd,” the other calls cheerfully over the throb of the bass. Ford finds himself back in time, once more a sweaty, shaky frizz of nerves standing awkwardly to the side while the other moves as though he was _made_ for dancing, limbs fluid like wind. Stanford’s aged better than his brother has, but Fiddleford… Time hadn’t been kind to his appearance, but it’s clear it’s never touched his bones.

It’s actually kind of impressive.

x x x

The party lasts all night, but there’s considerably less people closer to the stroke of midnight than there were a few hours prior.

The kids are already out, snoring peacefully over their grunkle’s shoulders. Stanley throws Ford a small smile and an incline of his head to say that the three of them are heading in for the night.

Fiddleford’s still “jiggin’”, even with the music off. Stanford smiles weakly back and waves his brother and unconscious niblings goodnight.

“Some party, huh?” Fiddleford laughs. He’s not even breaking a sweat.

“Yeah.” Ford swallows. _Now or never._ “Fiddleford, could we… talk?”

x x x

“I’m listenin’!”

There’s still a sizeable crowd milling around them. Stanford wrings his hands a little. “Ahh, actually, I was hoping we could take this somewhere more private...”

The other’s smile doesn’t falter. “S’okay. Here’s good!”

“…alright.”

Stanford inhales and shuts his eyes, steeling himself.

“Fiddleford, I’m… I’m _sorry._ For _everything_ I’ve put you through. It cost you your youth, your family, your sanity…” He puts his hands behind his back and looks away. “I don’t know how I can – ”

“‘Sorry’?”

And there it is. Stanford cringes.

“You’re _‘sorry’?!”_

Fiddleford storms over –

– and envelops him in a hug.

x x x

This was _not_ what he’d expected.

“Fiddleford,” Stanford gasps. Partly because he’s getting the air squeezed out of his lungs. “W-what are you –?!”

“Are you _sad,_ Stanferd Pines? For _me?”_ The other laughs heartily as he separates them and pats his back – and Stanford is floored by the absolute _sincerity_ of it. McGucket isn’t faking. “Don’ be! ‘fact, I’ve never been better in my _life!”_

“What?!” Fiddleford had lost his mind, sure, but this… Ford is unable to comprehend. “I made you go _insane!”_

“No, Stanford.” There’s no trace of insanity in his smile. “ _I_ made me go insane.”

x x x

Stanford gapes at him.

Fiddleford has straightened up. He’s _lucid._

“Don’cha dare blame yerself for me, Stanford Pines.” Betsy (or Susie, or… whatever her name was now) crawls curiously out of Fiddleford’s beard. He scratches her under her chin fondly, and smooths the fur between her ears as she starts gnawing on the chicken bone still buried within his hair. “My bein’ insane came about because I tried fixin’ what never needed fixin’ in t’first place. And… sure, there were some hard times. Some harder than the others.” He smiles wistfully over his shoulder, and Ford can make out Tate McGucket’s distinctive form in that general direction. “But I still had people who cared for me. Still had a roof over m’head, clothes on m’back, and food to put in m'belly. And even though it might not have been the wisest of decisions at the time… I was _happy.”_  

 _“’Was’?”_ Stanford chokes out, horrified.

“Still am, ‘course! Don’t fret.” Fiddleford chuckles. “You wanna know the only thing going crazy really, _actually_ cost me? My inhibitions. Stanford… I was _free._ I’d gone through my entire life with m’wings clipped and tethered by the rules and dullness of normalcy and society, and expectations and social pressures. When I lost my memories, I got rid of that annoyin’ voice inside’a me that always told me ‘no’, that always held me back from doing what I truly wanted ta do."

Betsy/Gina/Sally chirrups and leaps down onto the floor, scampering off towards the buffet tables.

Fiddleford watches her go. "I regret not being able to have been there for the people who needed me, when they needed me. I regret not having made the decisions I could have, and probably should have made when I was younger, when had all t'time in t'world.” He turns back towards Stanford, closing the distance between them as his expression sobers. “But… all roads lead ta Rome. I’m here. I’m _alive._ I love my friends and family. I love my son. And I love - ”

The fireworks erupt just then, as the clock strikes midnight. They both _jump_ at the initial explosion, not expecting it, but they quickly recover, and they laugh at their surprise - giddy, embarrassed, exhilarated, giggling nervously like schoolboys - as a litany of bright orange and purple sparks explode and rain down from the sky around them.

The crowd cheers and shrieks excitedly. Someone starts drunkenly belting out the lyrics to the Star Spangled Banner behind them.   

“ – your raccoon wife,” Stanford finishes for him, grinning, as the fireworks begin to thin out. “Yeah, I can see that. She’s… she’s a keeper.”

He jumps again as he feels the rough swath of bandages close over the six fingers of his free hand, where it’s been dangling beside his thigh. It’s then that Stanford realizes this is the first time all night he _hasn’t_ had them stuffed away in his pockets, or behind his back, or gripping on to some object or another in an attempt to pacify his anxiety.

Fiddleford squeezes his hand, lightly.

“Her, too,” he says softly.

He doesn’t look at Stanford. The tint on his cheeks might be from the dissipating fireworks.

Stanford eventually (silently, gratefully) squeezes back.

x x x

“Hot tamales,” Stanley breathes, nudging him in his side. “Is _that_ McGucket?”

Stanford turns as the younger pair of twins shriek excitedly, and all but dash for the front door to greet their newest guest.

His jaw _drops._

It’s Fiddleford. And he only knows this because of the raccoon (looking much cleaner, its fur obviously brushed and groomed) perched on his shoulder, and the appearance of a somewhat-flustered Tate McGucket behind him.

It isn’t the only thing to have undergone that treatment. Fiddleford’s snow-white beard is now combed, trimmed, shaved down to a manageable, softly rounded tuft that ends neatly beneath and around his chin. The band-aid that Ford has gotten used to seeing on his beard is nowhere in sight.

He’s wearing glasses again – presumably the same model as the ones he’d donned back in their college days. They sit smartly on his nose, as does the humble flat cap covering the liver spots on his otherwise bald head. It’s a simple tweed, the same style as his casual three piece. 

He looks… good.

Fiddleford grins and laughs as he lets the children pull him and his son inside, towards the birthday party that’s already under way. Mabel fawns expressively over his improved appearance, while Dipper ensures her enthusiasm remains checked at socially-acceptable levels.

Stan lets out a low whistle. “Wow. Now I feel under-dressed.”

“You wear the same outfit every day, you’re _definitely_ under-dressed,” Ford mutters, distractedly.

He cannot take his eyes off the other man. It’s unbelievable how different he looks now compared to just a few days ago.

Fiddleford catches him staring. He throws the larger man a knowing wink.

Ford pinks and turns away quickly, huffing.

“Uh-oh,” Stan says, loudly, nudging him again with the same, slow deliberateness as McGucket’s smile. “Methinks there’s _romance_ afoot.”

“Can it,” Ford groans, huddling deeper into the collar of his trenchcoat. Stan grins devilishly, and both he and Fiddleford exchange a conspiratorial thumbs up.  

He slips away to meet Fiddleford, once everyone has finished singing the birthday song (once in English, twice in Yiddish, another time in Spanish… then Korean, then (somewhat mangled) German, and then a full, live orchestra conducted by the Northwest girl – Mabel and Dipper have made a lot of friends during their short stay, it seems. Everyone laughs in appreciation, when both McGuckets stand up on chairs to perform their hambone rendition of the song in sync as well).

Fiddleford’s feeding the strawberry of his cake slice to Betsusiallyna when Ford comes over to him.

“Howdy, friend,” he says, eyes twinkling.

“‘Friend’?” Stanford feigns getting shot. “You wound me, McGucket.”

Fiddleford chuckles, tipping his head up as the other leans in. “Welcome back, Stanford.”

“Welcome back, Fiddleford,” he whispers.

x x x

(They both ignore the camera flash and Mabel’s excited squeal of “SCRAPBOOK MEMORIES!”)

(She screams in glee again as they part, and as Fiddleford immediately smashes the rest of his cake into Stanford’s face.)

(The party instantly degenerates into a full out food fight.)

(Stanford laughs.)

**Author's Note:**

> Going with the assumption that even though McGucket lived in the dump, his son still kind of cared about him, in a long-suffering, long-distance kind of way. He still acknowledged Fiddleford as his father in TLoTG, so that gives me a bit of hope.


End file.
